BlueEyed Farmer Girl
by Isobel Strife
Summary: 1845-1850. The famine struck Ireland. Chelsea had no choice but to run away from home and start anew. But what happens when she leaves Westport, starts her own farm and finds that an American silver haired man and the English Landlord like her? WxCxV
1. Chapter 1

**BEFORE YOU READ  
**

**My name is Isobel Strife. This story is written based on the great famine in Ireland from 1845-1850. Here are some facts about the famine which may help you with understanding this story more.**

**~Ireland was ruled by England during this time, taking our food and work over to their country. All Ireland wanted was to be free.**

**~In 1845, Ireland's essential crop the potato caught a disease called blight, causing them to rot away as soon as they were ready to be harvested.**

**~Due to this, many families were poor and starving. They had no money to pay the landlords, making them have to fight for a place in a workhouse.**

**~A workhouse is, basically, where people worked for their food. Men and women were separated and given separate jobs.**

**~Many people emigrated to America, England and Australia to try and escape the famine on coffin ships.**

**~Coffin ships were given their name because many people died on the voyages. Some ships even sank because there was so many people on board.**

**~The worst year of the famine was 1847 (Black 47)**

**~The Famine ended in 1850. More than one million people died and many more emigrated. The population of Ireland at the time before the famine (8 million) was more than halved. Ireland today is still building their population from 1850.**

**There! So I hope with these few facts they could make people not from Ireland understand this story better. Enjoy this story, but please no flames!**

_**Isobel Strife x**_


	2. C1 Quit Daydreamin', Kid!

**1  
Quit Daydreamin', Kid!  
_"Life's not fair, get over it." _**

When you know someone you love is going to die, what is the first thing you think of? The first thing I thought of, was how she was dying. And what dreaded thing was causing her illness. Also, her illness made me aware that I was not far behind from her.

The second thing was, she was my mother. How was an only-child and her father who does nothing all day long going to live? Life wasn't always as bad as it was then. Father used to smile and laugh and work. Mother would laugh along, hug us. They'd both pick me up when I fell and they'd sew my ripped clothes together. We wouldn't be well-off, but we only got what we needed and were pleased with what we were given. I wanted lots of things- I'd walk along the streets and see a pretty pink coat with flower stitches when I was four, then blue trousers when I became a tomboy. Porcelain dolls would look at me through their glass eyes, their pale skin shining in the sunlight, wanting me to choose them. Only to be pulled away from the window from my mother, who constantly apologized to me for not having the money to buy me them. A specific one just seems to haunt me. Its hair was in golden ringlets, which sat on her shoulders. At the top of her head was a fancy bonnet, with flowers and feathers coming out of it. In her tiny laced gloves was a frilly parasol, and she was wearing a long pink gown, with ribbons coming down in criss-cross patterns. Lastly, if you were cheeky and rude enough to pull her dress up to her ankles, you'd see the beginning of her lacy knickers and brown suede boots with a heel with neat, small bows tied to tighten each boot. When I looked through the shop window, I saw the doll's soft lips smiling at me, stretched to her rosy cheeks. It made me smile to look at her.

You wouldn't believe the amount of Saint Nicholas or Father Christmas letters I sent off with that doll on the list. Never once had it arrived on Christmas day.

As I waited on the chair, I saw the doctor coming out of the room. His face looked grim. I gulped and fidgeted with my red cloth I used to tie in my hair unusually. Standing to meet the doctor, he turned to face me.

"Please say she's alright!" I pleaded. The doctor opened his mouth, as if he wanted to lie. As if he wanted to tell me she's able to get up and laugh happily. As if he wanted to tell a fourteen year old woman her mother was all right. I was quite old, actually. Everyone said I'm healthy and able to live until thirty if I continue to live the way I did. But it felt like I haven't lived enough. Fourteen years, when you thought about it, isn't long, and for my mother, neither is twenty-eight. He shook his head at me, lost for words.

"Chelsea, I'm not sure if she'll live any longer than a few days," the doctor said quietly. "'Tis a terrible flu she has." He ran a hand through his black hair and suddenly coughed. Whatever my mother had, it looked like he was catching it too. "'S'pose you might be wanting to say your final words to her." He whispered this, as if he didn't want my mother to hear. I didn't blame him. Death is what scared my mother almost as much as the death of me or my father.

I offered to pay him five pennies for his time, but he shook his head at the money. "Saying goodbye to someone shouldn't have to be payed for," he said. He waved at me, then quietly closed the door to the small house. I would've smiled after him, but I couldn't.

I peeped into my mother's room, but she was asleep. I supposed it was dark, and it was time for me to sleep too. Screw my father, I wasn't going to wait for him to get home to go to sleep...

* * *

With shaky hands holding a small mug of tea, I pushed open the bedroom door with my back, leaning on the handle with my elbow. I smiled in at my mother, who was still asleep. I left down the cup on the old woodworm-eaten night stand and sat on the small stool on my mother's bed.

"Hello," I whispered. There wasn't any reply. When I took her hand, I flinched. She was stone cold.

"Mother?" I said, afraid. She wasn't replying. I shook her shoulders. "MOTHER!" I gasped for air. I bit my lip. I was so afraid... was she really gone before I could say a goodbye?

"MOTHER!" I pleaded, my voice racking with the sobs that had already started. "Wake up! PLEASE wake up!"

I wished she would reply. Calling the doctor over was just him saying the words I didn't want to hear. When I woke my father and whispered the words, his eyes widened at me. He jumped out of his bed, and ran straight into the little room where my mother lay. He did exactly what I did, then he turned to me. His face was full of rage, and he glared at me as if it was all my fault. I regretted waking my father after that. After the glare... everything was kind of hazy. All I remembered was waking up on the floor, but my mother was taken from the bed. And when I looked in the old, cracked mirror, I saw many, blood-faced, swollen faces that looked like destroyed versions of my own face.

* * *

A cool breeze blew in the very early morning weather and leaves danced around the place in the crisp autumn air. Folding my arms, I watched at the long box was lowered slowly into the whole. Five feet deep, five feet wide. The priest recited the long hymns, but I was hardly listening. Mother's funeral was small and the priest was boring, but it was short and effective, and when the priest said the word; "Love", it reminded me of how much I loved her.

Normal fathers would be there for his wife's funeral. Be there for his child to put his arms round and hug them to make them feel safe. Or squeeze their hand. Or even mumble; "We'll be OK." While my father was drowning in his depression at the bar. He believes everything had gone wrong with his life. With our farm which was now empty and desolate, the blight which affected the potato crop, the main food source and how we earned our money, my mother's death. But every time he comes home late at night, I can hear him babbling on about the only mistake my mother ever made.

Having me.

* * *

I didn't want to be back for my father, but I knew that I was the woman of the house, I had to make sure he was OK by the time he got back. With some yeast and flour I found in the cupboard and made up some bread, not caring that that was probably the last of the yeast. I saved some churned butter (that my mother had churned, but I tried not to think of my mother as a link to everything in the house, even when everything was) and I spread it on the bread, it melting quickly into the freshly baked slice.

It was when I was cleaning up the box room my mother stayed in the door smashed against the wall as it opened. Running out of the room, I thought a burglar had entered the home. Of course not, it was my father, drunk.

Even worse than a burglar.

"Damn you!" he yelled at me, limping over. "I-it's all YOUR fault!"

I couldn't understand why he was annoyed at me... I was scared and worried. I wanted to be anywhere but there. He stumbled over to me and I tried to take steps away. He fell, but he grabbed my ankle and pulled me down and I could feel pain shoot through me. I screamed.

"Father, please!" I pleaded, "Don't!"

He glared at me, his face twisted and the smell of stale drink nearly made me sick. "Life isn't about us always being fair, Chelsea, and it's not all fun! Quit daydreamin', kid! You have to get a life!"

Wriggling my ankle free, I climbed up the ladder quickly. I knew when he was drunk he wouldn't be able to go up anyway. He bellowed abuse up at me, and all I could do was listen to him, telling me I was worthless, that I was practically speeding up the process of my mother dying, that I was just a retarded mess that no one cared about. That I was a waste of space, an ugly, fat kid that will have no future. After everything went silent and the door slammed shut. There, I cried for a little bit, curled up in a ball. I then looked down from the wooden slates and saw that the bread was still untouched.

That was when I knew I couldn't take it anymore.

* * *

I didn't really need to take much. There wasn't much to take anyway. I took a bit of money of my own and a tiny amount of my father's. I packed my Sunday best, my cut-up trousers (which always surprised everyone when I wore them and I got the nickname; "Naked Girl") and a yellow top (also uncommon). I tied a piece of red cloth in my hair, to keep the annoying bits from falling into my eyes. Picking up the small bag, I climbed down the ladder and saw no one around. As I had my hand on the handle of the door, I took one last look around the house. Taking the piece of bread, I put it in my mouth as I opened the door, then closed it behind me.

I walked along the dusty road, and looked at the piece of paper I was holding... my last hope of escaping the village...

**Taro's Pickup Carts**

**Travel To Your Destination Faster and Cheaper!**

**Please go to one of the following addresses to ride on the cart... for a fee.**

**Westport, Mayo**

The directions weren't very exact, but I vaguely remembered a shack with a lot of carts parked at the front. The pickup carts were my only hope... and I had to buy one and get away quickly... father usually walks down this very same dusty road when he returns from the pub completely drunk.

**Chapter One is complete!  
BEFORE YOU ASK ANY QUESTIONS;**

**I know these names are NOT Irish, but I figured that using Irish names to replace everyone's would just get confusing, so to save everyone the hassle, I didn't change any names.**

**I know girls didn't wear shorts back then and probably didn't know what denim was, but I made Chelsea wear ripped blue trousers of her fathers very high up, and as it was frowned upon to have that much showing in those days, Chelsea was nicknamed the Naked Girl.**

**No, Vaughn or Will was not introduced yet, but Will shall be in the next chapter.**

**So, I hope that you enjoyed this! Please review and tell me how I did... but please don't rage... ^^'**

**Isobel Strife x**


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